


Sunset

by Arcanaa



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Gen, who doesn't want more fics about the fall of camelot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25482136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanaa/pseuds/Arcanaa
Summary: The room is lit by torchlight, and Gawain doesn’t even think to hope that it hides the way his hands are shaking, that his sword is still at his side.“Guinevere built this kingdom by your side.”
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Rey and Ev for saying very nice about this and getting me to actually post this!

Gawain is furious as he stalks down the hall, green cloak flaring around him as he answers the king’s summons. It isn’t until a servant leaps away from him, sending unlit torches rolling across the floor, that he realizes his hand is clenched around his sword. 

_You can’t stab the king,_ he reminded himself, and moved to transfer his sword to his back. Beyond the walls, the sun sets, and he’s off guard enough that it sends him stumbling. That’s all it takes to set him roiling again.

How dare he? 

How dare he let doubt and rumors worm this far into his court? How dare he let Mordred and Agravain wind the barons around their fingers? How dare he let Morgause win? How _dare_ he sacrifice Guinevere, just for a chance to hold Camelot together by his fingertips?

How dare he call Gawain in at sunset, like he’s some wildcard who would take his sword against Arthur over this, like he’s some child who will collapse as dark falls?

He strides into the throne room unannounced.

“You have seen nothing.” Gawain tries to keep his voice even, and manages bitting, working words around clenched teeth. “You have rumors. Tall tales born of rage.” The room is lit by torchlight, and he doesn’t even think to hope that it hides the way his hands are shaking, that his sword is still at his side. “Guinevere built this kingdom by your side.” _By their sides_. “Cave to this, and you will kill Camelot with your own hands."

“There have always been rumors.” The king succeeds in keeping his voice flat, and Gawain misses his hands clenched tights against the word of his thrown. “This goes beyond that. I will leave this in the hands of proper justice-“

_“You know how that will end.”_ Gawain steps forward. So do Kay and Bedivere, flanking the throne. The king’s usual guard is absent. _Proper justice_.

“I cannot make exceptions.” The king is utterly impassive. “Not for her, not for you.”

“You have every reason to dismiss my brothers. They are playing politics, seeking your-“

“Do you really believe they speak false, Gawain?”

Cast in torchlight, the throne room seems small. Bedivere seems weary, Kay seems worn. Arthur’s hands are clenched against his throne. 

“The Orcades have rebelled before,” says Gawain. 

“Guard the Queen,” says Arthur, as though he can seal over the cracks in his throne, spreading through stone beneath him. “Watch her through the night. Tomorrow, you will-“

“No.” The torches crackle. 

Arthur doesn’t seem surprised. He nods. “Leave, then.”

Gawain stumbles over his words. 

“Leave,” repeats the King, and his voice seems to echo. “You are not welcome in Camelot tonight.”

Gawain’s hand goes to his sword.

He leaves. 

-

The round table is lit only by the last rays of sunset. As Gawain approaches, he can see the first round table, Guinevere’s gift, back when there were barely twenty of them. It’s ringed by a swathed of dark wood: they had expanded the table to accommodate the hostages of petty kings who had earned Arthur’s trust, and with ever-growing rings of different colored wood, as knights came from across to land, to Camelot. 

But Gawain is looking at the first table. 

He had been thirteen when he walked into London, the sun in his eyes and blood under his nails. 

He hops lightly onto the table, approaching the center.

If he looks closely enough, can he find the ruts he chipped into the edge during eternal meetings on land-management? The gouge where Kay had grown incensed enough to plunge his knife into the wood? The stone beneath the table and the rushes where Lancelot had carved the year, the first Pentecost they weren’t in battle, giddy about the start of an era?

In the center of the table is stone centerpiece. It’s beautifully carved, a gift from some petty king. It allows them to light the whole table without risking the wood burning. 

Gawain draws Excalibur. The blade is light in his hands, impossible.

He plunges into the stone, piercing through the woods beneath.

It’s dark, as he leaves the castle. 

-

Arthur sets the lantern on the edge of the table, feeling almost sacrilegious as he steps onto it. He wanders towards the center, spiraling as he seeks out the marks of Camelot’s growth- here, the scorch marks from the Siege Perilous, before Galahad had claimed it. Here, the strange purple marks of Morgan’s magic, the last time she had graced his halls. Here, where Kay had become impassioned enough to stab the table, as he dragged Arthur into ruling over peace. 

Excalibur shines gently in the center piece. Arthur grasps the handle, and pulls it free just as easily as he had that day in London, when being Kay’s squire had seemed the grandest fantasy of all. 

“You really were only ever Merlin’s will.”

-

“You don’t have to worry,” tries Gareth. He desperately wishes he were armed. It’s not that he’s afraid of being attacked- he’s afraid of something greater, the unpredictable splintering of the future he had thought was set in stone. That’s not the kind of fear he could swing a sword at, but he misses the comfort of his swords weight, the ritual of of tying and untying his armor’s straps. 

He only realizes that he has trailed off when Gaheris starts talking.

“The knights lost track of Lancelot long before the channel. He knows perfectly well how to get into the castle where the guards are thinnest, and I doubt the guards will even try to stop him. We certainly won’t, I’ll swear you that.”

“By the time morning comes, you’ll be halfway across channel.”

The queen does not answer.

-

Gareth had fought by Lancelot’s side long enough to know that there was nothing to do but run. 

And he knew it would do him no good.

-

In the dark, Gawain flinches.

It’s faint, muted by starlight and by distance, but still, he feels the sword tear through Gareth. He feels Gaheris hit the floor. 

He turns back toward Camelot, and rides into the darkness.


End file.
